


Purple Unicorn

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Gift, Glitter, M/M, fast fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Although the thought of Arthur dancing with strangers in a hot, sweaty, glitter-dusted club had been unsettling, the image of Arthur, streaked with glitter and sweat, laughing at Eames on a packed dance floor is anything but.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dandalfthedisco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandalfthedisco/gifts).



> I said: "I'm sad because I have nothing to write."  
> Dandalf-the-disco said: "You can write something for me."  
> I said: "Ok, prompt?"  
> Disco said" Glitter.Yes defintely glitter".  
> And behold, a few hours later, glitter for disco.
> 
> Written at speed, and not beta'd

“What’s this, darling?” Eames, scratching his fingers through Arthur’s hair, feels a grittiness on the soft skin behind his ear.

It’s Arthur, so it can’t be a lack of attention to bathing. 

He leans over, pushing the dark hair aside. And sees something catching the light. Something purple.

“Arthur!” He’s surprised into using his name.

Arthur makes a small annoyed noise and rubs his head into Eames’ hand, clearly asking for the scratching to continue.

“Darling,” says Eames, “what have you here? Don’t tell me it’s glitter? Purple glitter at that!”

“What? Glitter?” Arthur lifts his hand, rubs hard behind his ear and looks at his fingers. Purple glitter. He frowns. “I have no idea,” he says.

“Were you out at a club while I was gone last weekend, love?” says Eames, amused.

“What? No! No, I would never!” He sits back, turns to look at Eames. “I really wouldn't, without you. Why would I?”

“You might have felt like dancing?” Eames says it lightly enough, but he can't deny the thought of Arthur dancing without him at some hot, sweaty, _glitter-dusted_ club is a little … unsettling.

“No, not on my own. Never!” says Arthur, settling back against Eames’ side and picking up his hand, dragging it back to his head.

Eames takes the hint, returning to his gentle scratching, glitter caught under his nails.

When Arthur gets into bed later, his hair still a bit damp from the shower, there are only a few grains of glitter left. Eames can’t help smiling.

Arthur is just drifting off when he suddenly says: “I helped James draw a picture of a unicorn the other day. A purple, glittery unicorn.”

“Good for James,” says Eames. “And you got glitter in your hair how?”

Arthur giggles. “There may have been tickling.”

Mystery solved. But now Eames can't help feeling a little sorry the explanation is so innocent. Because although the thought of Arthur dancing with strangers in a hot, sweaty, glitter-dusted club had been unsettling, the image of Arthur, streaked with glitter and sweat, laughing at Eames on a packed dance floor is anything but. 

They’re busy for the next few weeks, but finally there’s a free weekend.

“Darling. Arthur,” Eames says as he makes coffee on Saturday morning.

“Eames?” says Arthur.

“Darling. Would you …” Eames feels a bit foolish asking. They never really dated, went straight from somewhat prickly colleagues to living together in both their secret apartments, skipping right over a more conventional courtship (he smiles at himself for even thinking the old-fashioned word). He clears his throat. Arthur is looking at him over the top of his laptop. “Darling, would you like to go dancing? With me? At a club?”

Arthur laughs, looking delighted. “Eames, are you asking me on a date?” 

“Yes, I suppose I am!” says Eames, relieved. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “How do you know I can dance?” he says.

Eames gestures at him, a sweeping motion from head to foot. “Have you seen yourself lately? I’d be damn surprised if you couldn’t dance.” 

“Oh, so I’m not a stick in the mud?”

“Bloody Cobb,” says Eames. “No, anything but. As you well know, love. I had to throw him off the scent, though. Didn't need him leering at us, or mooning around.”

Arthur laughs, and looks a little shamefaced. “Poor guy,” he says. 

“But to return to the question at hand …” He hands Arthur a mug of coffee. 

“Of course, Eames. I’d love to go dancing with you!”

“Brilliant!” says Eames, somehow a teenager again at the thought of going dancing with his hot boyfriend.

The day passes like any other Saturday — groceries, laundry, chores — but at the back of his mind is the picture that started this all. Arthur, sweaty and streaked with purple glitter. 

After dinner he says, feeling a bit foolish: “I suppose we should think of getting ready.” 

“Well, yes,” says Arthur. “We can't go for hours, though.” 

“I suppose not,” says Eames. “Want a drink, to pass the time?”

“Yes! Make me a dry martini?” 

“Awfully … Fifties of you, darling,” says Eames.

“Oh really, Mr Eames? Make it a Sex on the Beach then.” Arthur bestows his full dimples on Eames. “You can bring it to the bedroom. I need to go and find some suitable clothes.” 

He saunters off with a definite wiggle, throwing a wicked look over his shoulder. 

Eames wonders why this is the first time he’s asked Arthur to go dancing. He hunted through the back of his closet when he had the idea, and he knows what he will wear. Googling “Sex on the Beach”, he grimaces, and makes them both a martini. 

“There you go, darling,” he says, handing the icy cocktail glass to Arthur in the bedroom. He has a pile of clothes on the bed.

“Stuck with the classic, did you?” says Arthur, taking a sip and hissing in appreciation.

“Yes, well. Peach schnapps? Sorry, we don't have any. Obviously.” 

Arthur laughs. “Obviously!”

He puts the glass down and roots through the pile of clothes. “Oh good, I thought I hadn’t tossed these,” he says, smiling and holding up pair of black jeans. Eames is pretty used to Arthur’s trousers by now, but he whistles.

“Coming to shower?” says Arthur.

Under the hot spray, Arthur pushes up to Eames, pins him against the tile. “If we’re going to act like teenagers,” he says, kissing Eames hard and filthy.

“I don’t know what sort of adolescence you had in the Midwest, darling,” says Eames, laughing, afterwards, “but mine wasn't like that, I'm afraid.”

“Mine either,” says Arthur, kissing him again and running his hand down Eames’ chest.

The dregs of the martinis are a bit warm by the time they finally start dressing. Eames has also dug out a pair of jeans he last wore a while ago. He’s pleased they still fit. Well. He pulls on a white T-shirt.

Arthur’s black jeans are soft and ripped at the knee. He lets his hair hang into his eyes. His T-shirt is a size or two tighter than he’d normally wear. He looks about 20. He turns to Eames and his eyes widen. The sleeves of Eames’ shirt are short and tight and quite a lot of his tattoos can be seen. 

“God, Eames,” he says.

“God, yourself,” says Eames. “Shall we go?” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “before I rip that shirt back off you. But there’s one thing …” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small tub, unscrews the lid and dips his finger in, pulls it out covered in purple glittery gel. He smears it across his collarbones, keeping his eyes fixed on Eames. “This what you had in mind?” 

Eames swallows. “God, yes, darling,” he says.

**

The club is just as packed, hot and sweaty as Eames imagined it would be. The music’s louder than any he’s listened to for ages. Both he and Arthur have had to turn down offers of drinks at the bar. 

Arthur has his head thrown back, shaking his hair out of his eyes, he’s laughing, the lights are gleaming off the sweat sheening his throat, catching the glitter in the hollow of his collarbones and Eames can't imagine why they’ve never done this before. When he goes to have a pee, he notices his mouth is smeared with purple glitter and startles the kid washing his hands at the next sink with how hugely he grins. 

Back on the dance floor he drops his mouth to Arthur’s throat again as he grinds up against him, feeling no older than Arthur looks. “Thank you, James,” he murmurs into Arthur’s ear. 

Arthur understands. “Thank you, purple unicorn,” he says.

**

The next morning, there’s purple glitter smeared across the pillows, along with a scattering of gold glitter that sifts down as Eames pushes his hand through his hair, yawning, stretching his aching muscles. Arthur rolls over and rubs his thumb along Eames’ jaw. It comes away smeared with glittering purple too. He just grins.


End file.
